This weekend is the NBC World Series. I don't know what NBC stands for. National Baseball C.... something. It's irrelevant anyway and it's the last one I'll ever attend so I'm not going to worry about learning what it is now. See, we haven't gotten to see the Prodigal Son play much this summer because his tournaments are always on the same weekends as the brunette's so we drive the brunette to her tournament and the Prodigal Son gets to his tournament on a team bus. Pretty cool how that worked out for us, actually. But this weekend we were devoted to the Prodigal Son and his last tournament.
Second game. Friday night. Second or third time at-bat (likely I don't remember because I was drinking). He struck out and in response, he stamped his bat on the plate. The umpire went all fucking crazy and started flailing his arms around and going through this very elaborate and obviously well-practiced-for-many-hour-in-front-of-a-mirror routine. The parents in front of me turned around and said, "That boy just got thrown out of the game - who's boy is that?" Uhhh - "that would be MY boy. What did he do?" Stamped his bat on the plate. Oh okay. That IS bad. I would definitely throw his ass out of the game also. What.the.fuck? I'd seen another boy (the Eddie Haskell of the team) THROW his bat AND his helmet just two batter prior when he struck out. I became enraged. See. The Prodigal Son - he's half puerto rican - as is the brunette - and sometimes I just cannot help but think there is still racism and bigotry in this country and so often my thoughts immediately turn to that fact when I feel he's been dealt a rough hand. I likely got that sense back when he was in elementary school and racially bullied for several months. And so the momma bear in me rises up and I'm immediately pissed.
But I just sat there, with the brunette, keeping my mouth shut and sipping my drink through the fat straw. (love fat straws). I would bite my tongue and not make a scene. Until the NEXT time I saw a kid throw a fit when he struck out - and then I went ape shit - screamining - 'HE THREW HIS BAT - HE THREW HIS BAT AND HE CUSSED - WAKE UP BLUE AND APPLY YOUR JACKED UP SHIT TO EVERYONE FAIRLY'. He did not and the brunette warned I would get thrown out too if I didn't shut up. But the mouth was already engaged so I responded to her in my out loud voice, "I don't give a rat's ass if he throws me out too - he's a fat Fucker." Then those parents looked at me and I said, "Oh - I'm sorry - did I say that out loud?" And they laughed. But I was still pissed.
Then that little fat fuck DID throw another kid out. So I felt better. And he wasn't a Puerto Rican kid - so I figured he did it just to prove he was not a racist - but I was still on to him. Turns out the Prodigal Son did more than just stamp his bat on the plate - evidently he also said, "That is BULLSHIT" when he struck out. What.the.fuck. He didn't punch the blue in the face. He didn't tell the blue HE was bullshit or call him a fat fuck like I did. He was mad at himself because he's in a batting slump and he was referring to his repeated striking out as bullshit. But I guess it was hot. He was fat. And irritable. My mom said it was just the perfect storm. She is likely right.
So the next day - at the games - evidently tournament rules say the prodigal son could not even be on the roster since he'd been thrown out of A game the prior day. What.the.fuck kind of rule is that? That's fucking stupid. It's no wonder the Prodigal Son has hated high school. Has hated everything about the system and is ready to get the hell on with his life. I'm so ready for that too. For both his and my sake.
We're headed back out to the ball park for a game today. I hope he gets to play. But the fuckhead coach will likely just allow him to be the designated runner. Forget the fact that the prodigal son made all-state, all-league and all-city teams. Just put some get-along kid out there in his spot. I keep telling the prodigal son that one day soon, all those douche bag butt kissers day will come - when coaches will see through their bullshit and determine play time on raw talent alone. And on that day - the son will play and the Eddie Haskells will sit the bench. Until then - Momma Bear is on high alert and like her Prodigal Son - sick of the shit.